


Reliable

by symbolcrash



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Drama, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-18
Updated: 2006-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 05:35:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symbolcrash/pseuds/symbolcrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney yammers in a tree jail, Carson is self-contemplatory and unamused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reliable

**Author's Note:**

> Concrit: ~Hit me with your best shot!~ It's very obviously my first SG:A fic, so, yeah. And - unbeta-ed.

He always wanted someone to rely on him.  
  
Even when he was young, wild, not-so-free and living with his parents, Rodney McKay got a particular thrill whenever he was given a new responsibility. While others – in particular, his parents – merely viewed the assignments as an easy way to shuck off some of their work onto someone else, young Rodney believed that with every chore he was given, a small amount of dependence from the person who gave it to him remained. They  _needed_  him. Without him, they'd never make it through the day.  
  
Twenty or so years later, he would find himself captive on a small paradise planet in the Pegasus Galaxy with an unlimited supply of half-naked, sadistic natives and two lives on his time-card for whom he definitely could not account.  
  
They'd probably gotten themselves killed. Sheppard would have mouthed off to the apparently irritable native leader with a loincloth and Teyla – whom McKay was certain had a thing for him; oh, he could tell she lusted after his intellect, but she was obviously too proud to admit it (they might have had something together if she and Sheppard hadn't gotten themselves killed) – would have tried to save his ass when the chieftain lunged with his pointy stick, only to be shish-ka-bobbed in the end with the Colonel and a few of those little white fruits that looked like onions.  
  
 _I hope they're okay._  
  
He leaned his forehead against the cool, tough perimeter of his organic prison. If only he were where they were, he would be able to save them. They probably knew it, too. Most likely, they were looking for him just so he could save them.  
  
Wait. That didn't make sense.  
  
Okay, he admitted it. The fact that the generator overheated – that  _might_  have been  _partially_  his fault. He shouldn't have driven it so hard.   
  
 _deadlines deadlines_  
  
But the fact that it blew Beckett's centrifuge and the last of his alien tree bark oil of unpronounceable nomenclature? _Totally_  unheard of and  _not_  his fault. He couldn't even fathom a reason why Zelenka would have rewired that sector – unless, of course, the chief engineer was wasted or really, really stupid.   
  
And why was Beckett making analgesics, anyway? They had analgesics. They had enough Space Tylenol to last them until the next stage of human evolution. Wasn't he supposed to be improving the retrovirus? The whole Michael thing was a huge blemish on the files of the Atlantis expedition and quite frankly it scared the living shit out of him. Wasn't Carson supposed to be busy making sure that  _never happened again?_    
  
Yeah, he was. But there they were. Not working on the retrovirus and trapped in a  _tree_.  
  
Beckett, meanwhile, was sitting on one of the extended tree roots in the little enclosure, elbows resting on his knees, face cupped in his hands. He'd been like that for a while; McKay wondered if he fell asleep. Now was  _really_  not the time.   
  
“Carson! Yoo-hoo, Carson.”  
  
The doctor looked up at him tiredly. His voice cracked when he started talking, as if he hadn't said a word all day. Maybe he  _had_  been sleeping. “What now, Rodney?”  
  
“Just seeing if you were awake. Say, you wouldn't happen to have a knife on you, would ya? Or maybe some of that tree bark you stole from the chieftain's  _personal feng-shui courtyard_  has some acidic solvent properties – oh wait! It was confiscated, along with the  _rest_  of our weapons and communications devices. My mistake.”  
  
“Shut up, Rodney.”  
  
“Look, you ruined diplomatic relations with a primitive society and trapped me in jail for some hyped-up Advil. I think I have an excuse to be just a tiny, itsy-bitsy bit upset.”  
  
Beckett looked incredulous. “I ruined  _what?_ ”  
  
McKay waved away Beckett's inquiry with a frustrated sweep of his hand. “Never mind.” He crossed his arms and glanced impatiently through the thick roots of the cell at the guard. “Hey, buddy – got a knife?”  
  
The guard scowled.  
  
“Useless,” he muttered.  
  
“I hate the retrovirus,” Beckett said.  
  
“Beg pardon?” McKay asked.  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
McKay squinted. “I'm sorry, I thought I just heard you say that you hated the retrovirus. I must be making things up in my brain.”  
  
Beckett said nothing. His lips were set in a thin line, and he was staring intently at a root knob that looked remarkably like Margaret Thatcher. McKay threw his hands up and laughed. “Finally, I must be going insane – imagine, after all these years! I figured it would happen someday, but wow! Right in the middle of the war on the Wraith; I've got  _great_  timing.”  
  
“I  _hate the retrovirus!_ ” Beckett shouted, his voice growing louder with every syllable. He sat back against the tree root and grimaced slightly as a splinter found its way under his shirt and into his back.   
  
McKay started briefly, then frowned. “You didn't have to shout, Mood Swing Boy.”  
  
The doctor ignored his comment. “This is all its fault.”  
  
Now it was McKay's turn to gawk. “You're going to blame something that isn't even technically alive for getting us stuck in a beefed-up tree fort  _millions of miles_  away. And people say  _I_  have a liability assignment problem.”  
  
“I - feel wrong when I think about it,” Beckett sighed. “Y'know?”  
  
There was a pause. “You  _what?_ ”  
  
Beckett was quick to recover. “I know it's probably the best thing that's happened to our side – besides the fact that they all know about it now -”  
  
McKay snorted. “Yeah, that was a smooth move.”  
  
“ - but – Michael was so  _human._ ”  
  
The scientist winced. He didn't think Michael was a good human. He remembered quite distinctly how nervous he felt around the transformed Wraith – it was embarrassing.   
  
“I've a creed to uphold,” Beckett continued. “When he still had the iratus DNA, it was like in school, when you dissect the bug to see what it's made of.”  
  
“Yeah, that was gross,” McKay said.  
  
“After, though – I had to keep reminding myself that he was a Wraith, that this is for the good of humanity, but I hated to see another human being – and yes, he  _was_  human, almost one-hundred percent for a brief time – suffer for what seems like the greater good, I just never want to go through that again.”  
  
McKay raised his eyebrows. “I can't believe you're procrastinating on something like this. Does Weir know?”  
  
Beckett coughed out a harsh laugh. “Are you out of your gourd?”  
  
“So what're you gonna do?” McKay asked idly, picking at some of the bark. “Obviously if you keep our team running to the supermarket every week or so, people are going to start getting a little suspicious. And if they ask me, well – I tend to cave under heavy questioning.”  
  
Beckett lowered his head. “I don't know, Rodney. I finish it, of course – doesn't mean I'll be happy about the road to get there.”  
  
“But it could mean  _winning_  the  _war_  against the Wraith!”  
  
“I  _know!_ ” Beckett countered. “I know. Just – ah, t'hell with it, forget I said anything.” He returned to his original position, head cradled in his hands.  
  
McKay turned back to look outside. “When I was at university, I hung out with a relatively small group of people.”  
  
“Really? That many?” Beckett replied, his voice muffled through his hands.  
  
“Watch it, Dr. Strangelove. Okay, mainly we did things for school, we didn't really hang out – it was sort of a forced socialisation instituted by the department heads where we went out sometimes and set things on fire – completely  _legally_ – well, most of the time – and there was once this huge dispute over who was going to set off a new mini-rocket we'd designed. It wasn't like our usual rockets in that it could have  _very_  destructive tendencies if it were to, say, leak. So there was more power in the booster but less stability because there were several reactions going off at -”  
  
“Get to the  _point_ , Rodney!”  
  
McKay put his hands up in front of him defensively. “Okay, okay. Anyway, big dispute over who was going to set it off, because we couldn't do it remotely with the new design and it had to be manually launched at close range. So we made the new kid do it.”  
  
“Made him?”  
  
“Yeah, we said we'd tell his mother we found him passed out drunk on the roof of the physics department if he didn't.”  
  
“You found him passed out drunk on the roof of the physics department?!”  
  
“Well, technically no. Are you going to let me finish or not?”  
  
Beckett scrubbed his face with his palm. “Oh my God.”  
  
“So we made the new kid set off the rocket, and we heard this hissing sound, so naturally everyone ran away. The kid that set off the rocket almost lost his hand.”  
  
A lengthy bout of silence ensued. Beckett looked at McKay expectantly. “And?”  
  
McKay shrugged. “He – almost lost his hand. That's it. Oh! And I was going to work in something about making sacrifices for the sake of science, but I went off on a tangent and the analogy wasn't quite as novel-esque as I'd hoped.”  
  
Beckett's jaw dropped. “You -”  
  
“Hey!” A voice echoed from across the field workers. It was Sheppard, with Teyla and the chieftain closeby.  
  
“Hey! - what?” McKay stammered.  
  
“We've apologised on your behalf to the chieftain, Dr. Beckett,” Teyla smiled. “It was a misunderstanding, and he recognises that.”  
  
“Thanks, Teyla.” Beckett sighed.  
  
“Finally!” McKay shouted, relief readily apparent in his voice. “We've been here for at  _least_  an hour.” He thought about how he had expected to save them, but figured it a charitable blow to his pride in exchange for freedom.  
  
Sheppard pulled a cloth sack from the inside of his jacket. “Here. He says we can have this and more if we need it --”  
  
“Just – ah.” The chieftain smiled wanly. “Ask.”  
  
Beckett and McKay were released from the holding cell promptly thereafter. “Freedom!” McKay cried. “Delicious freedom!” He turned to Beckett and lowered his voice. “So, was the story helpful, anyway?”  
  
Beckett stopped walking and stared at the scientist. “McKay. Shut up.”  
  
“Oh! Fine. I know several people who appreciate my analysis and psychological input.” He jogged ahead a few paces, lowering his voice. “And as soon as I fix the generator, I'll find them.”  
  
Shaking his head, Beckett trotted a few paces behind. His mind was too occupied to wonder about McKay – not that it would do any good.   
  
Yeah, he'd finish the retrovirus. Not tonight, but --  
  
 _deadlines deadlines_  
  
\-- he'd definitely perfect it.   
  
Hopefully, he wouldn't lose a hand.


End file.
